The one in which Draco isn't crushing on Harry at all
by saywhatyouneedtosay
Summary: "And, oh, what a sight you are. Blazing eyes, shaking fists, one of which is holding your wand (the wooden one), clenched jaws…yeah, I am really glad these robes are quite thick." First Harry/Draco fic. 1st person narrative, we get to witness what goes through Draco's mind as he struggles to cope with certain feelings refusing to be buried under the surface.
1. A damsel in distress

**A/N:** Well, here it is, my first Harry/Draco fanfic. Will be multichaptered, though, fair warning, I'm not the fastest updater. I really hope you like it!

 _Disclaimer:_ Harry Potter doesn't belong to me.

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 **The one in which Draco isn't crushing on Harry at all (well, maybe just a bit)**

 **Chapter 1: A damsel in distress**

It's not that I hate you, I swear. It's just that you're so incredibly easy to bother. And I like that. You look almost cute when you're flustered: all red cheeks, narrowed eyes, gritted teeth…makes me want to grab you, press your body against mine, slip my hand into your messy hair, tilt your face just so that I can lick at your lips, using your surprised (enraged) gasp to slip my tongue past those pearly whites and…uh, yeah, you get the gist.

We're in Potions after all, and it won't do for Sev to notice the not-so-subtle rise beneath my robes if I continue this particular train of thought, it just might be a tad embarrassing (or a lot). Still can't believe he pulled a Binns and came back to teach potions…it's mildly disconcerting if you'd ask me (which I know you wouldn't, we don't talk, ever).

By the way, I didn't think I'd live to see the day where the two of you would be civil to each other, it's awkward (and not just to me, it's awkward for the two of you as well, I can see it, I like to observe you nowadays…or maybe I always have. I don't like to think about the past, let bygones be bygones and all that).

Your actions confuse (worry) me, you know. I don't talk to you because I wouldn't know what to say: thank you for freeing us from that, that _thing_? I'm not your fan boy.

Thank you for speaking up for my mother and me at our trials? She already did.

I'm sorry for being mean to you and your friends, for lying, hurting, torturing, _lusting_ after you? Would you really believe me?

You mistrust me; you don't sneer or laugh at me like others do (who cares about them anyway), but you're weary of me. You don't trust any of the grand total of us 3 returning Slytherins (me, Pansy, Zabini), but you make a real effort towards the (yet) innocent first-years who have had the doubtful luck of being sorted into our old and worthy (traitorous, shameful) house. I guess I can understand that sentiment. We're tainted, we've done things that we still have nightmares about…but them, they are still pure, and so we don't interfere with you and your attempts to distance them from us, it's better for them to be _your_ fans than mine.

Speaking of which, I'm just waiting for you to have a good-old-fashioned Potter-esque outburst. I can see your patience wearing thinner every time one of your self-professed fans attempts to carry your bag for you, offers to do your oh-so-troublesome homework, brings you homemade (I doubt that) cookies, self-made scarves, even offers you their rather questionable _services_ (I admit I had a good laugh when I heard about that, and no, I did not feel any jealousy, _at all_ ). And you always seem so tired (I used to think it was from shagging the Weasley-girl, but I hear you broke up…which did _not_ get my hopes up, I know you don't like blokes that way…I think), and it worries me.

Whatever I feel for you (jealousy, frustration, pity, lust, sympathy, anger, sadness), you're in my head and I can't get you out of it. I notice things about you, like you drumming your fingers on the table in class and constantly (irritatingly) tapping your right foot. I notice how you've taken to walking briskly from class to class, as if you're being followed (which you are, though not by Death Eaters this time, oh no, but by your loyal following of fan boys and fan girls)…you look haunted. I guess we all are. But (and I hate to admit that), you've done so much already, for everybody, and selflessly (bloody Gryffindor), that I think you should just take a break. And, you know, it's not just your responsibility alone to take care of this world, far from it, you're being….

"That's it for today. I expect your essays on the properties of Wolfsbane to be handed in by Monday, have a nice weekend."

Being dead has apparently given Sev a newfound sense of humour. I don't like it.

Well, class is over.

You sigh and practically bolt from class, and if I stare at a specific body part, well, I'm doing no harm. So I nod to Uncle Sev, almost smile (so does he), and make my way to the door where I promptly get run into.

"Watch it!" I warn the myopic oaf whose alarming body size has more or less catapulted me out of the Potions classroom.

"You talking to me, Death Eater?"

"You ran into me, does your tiny brain lack the skill of short-term memory?" I snap back.

Turning a lovely shade of purple, today's appointed leader of the We-hate-Malfoy-squad shoves me into the wall, making me drop my bag and wince at the sharp sting originating from the newly formed bump on the back of my head.

"Just fuck off, you don't belong here, you should be rotting in Azkaban with your worthless father!"

Hmm, a low blow, but I refuse to answer to such nonsense: I am, after all, a Malfoy (and this oaf has a Goyle-like muscle mass). Ignoring the sodding git, I pick up my bag and walk away (not before giving him my patented sneer, I perfected it for a reason after all). Alas, some people just refuse to get the hint.

"Hey, I'm talking to you! What, did I hurt your feelings? Heh, didn't know you had any. Just walk away then, go on, right out of the castle, and take your minions with you, _murderer_."

"ENOUGH!" The yell reverberates through the halls, and we all turn to see exactly who dares to defend the resident Death Eater.

And, oh, what a sight you are. Blazing eyes, shaking fists, one of which is holding your wand (the wooden one), clenched jaws…yeah, I am really glad these robes are quite thick.

"The war is over, and I know for a fact that Malfoy did not kill anyone. Yes, he screwed up, but which one of you wouldn't have tried to do anything in their power to protect their families from Voldemort?"

Everyone keeps staring at Potter (who knew you had such a high opinion of me?), and you just stand there glaring at us, as if you were daring us to contradict you. After a few seconds of heavy silence, the students gathered around us start to walk away, I guess disagreeing with their Saviour over me isn't worth it. Eventually it's just you and me standing in the hallway, locked in a tense staring contest.

"Well, Potter, it seems like thanks are in order," I drawl, breaking the silence. "Would you like a gift basket sent to your dorms? Or maybe a kiss since you seem to think I'm some sort of damsel in distress too weak to fight his own battles?"

It's truly amazing: you can demand respect from the whole school with a couple of words, but one barely suggestive jab from me and you turn into a spluttering, red-faced schoolboy. How am I supposed to resist that?

"What? I didn't…No! Shut up Malfoy! Can't you just say thank you?" Harry whirls around and starts stomping away, only to stop walking after a few steps and change directions (the Charms classroom is in the other direction, after all; and don't ask me why I know your class schedule so well, I just do, no stalking involved).

Oh this is too good. Before I can change my mind, I catch up to you. Just as you start to glance at me suspiciously, I start leaning in. Your eyes go wide and you start backing away. But I just smile (I think your eyes might pop right out of your face if they open any wider) and before you get the chance to escape, I brush my lips against your cheek and whisper:

"Thank you, Harry."

And as soon as it's done, I walk away, smirk firmly in place (and a heavily pounding heart trying to make its way out of my chest). While I would love to see your expression right now, it might just be safer to flee while you're still shocked (yes, my inner Slytherin is showing).

I do, however, hear you muttering:

"What the hell just happened?"

Well, that's what I'd like to know too.

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 **A/N:** Thank you so much for reading! I'm already working on chapter 2, so you can expect that to pop up withing the next couple of days. Please review, it makes my day and helps inspire me! Also, any and all mistakes are mine, thus constructive criticism is not just appreciated but pretty much asked for.


	2. An insightful monologue

**A/N:** Next chapter is up! Thank you so much for all your reviews, they really do a lot to encourage me to keep writing! For clarification: Draco's runaway thoughts are in brackets, e.g.: (Potter is so hot), the story is written from his point of view though, and he's usally talking to Potter in his head, which is why Blaise and Pansy are addressed as "he" and "she" and Harry is addressed as "you". Enjoy!

 **Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.

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 **Chapter 2: An insightful monologue**

Finally, the school day is over. One would think that after a year of war and general mayhem the teachers would lay off a little on the schoolwork. Especially for us Eight Year students, since, really, this year is merely a necessary evil in order to get our NEWTs (and for me to gain any chance at redemption). I'm not sure if I resent the Wizengamot for ordering me to repeat my seventh year of school as part of my sentence or not. While it gives me a short reprieve from the realities of the world outside of Hogwarts, it has also condemned me to return to walking the halls wherein I committed my greatest sins.

As Pansy, Blaise and I make our way towards the Great Hall, I can't help but notice that more than the usual amount of people seems to be staring at us.

"Pansy, darling, is it me or have we suddenly become the target of Hogwarts' latest gossip? "

Pursing her lips, Pansy takes a quick look at the people walking beside us. "It appears to be so, honey. And what exactly might warrant this sudden increase of interest in us dastardly Slytherins? Anything you want to tell us, Draco? Or should I be asking you, Blaise?"

Blaise just snorts and rolls his eyes. "Darling, the most interesting thing I did today was eating two pieces of toast instead of my usual one for breakfast. I hardly think that is the cause for all this nonsense. But if I were to guess, the rumours going around might have something to do with the fact that our dear Draco here was saved from being pummelled into the wall by none other than our almighty Saviour, Mr. Potter himself. "

"What? How come I'm only hearing about this now?" Pansy shrieks.

"Well, if you hadn't dropped Potions after our OWLs in fifth year, you would have had a front row seat to Potter's timely rescue of yours truly. You have no one to blame but yourself, Pansy," I quip back. "And there was no risk of me being pummelled into any wall, I can look out for myself, Blaise. Or do I need to remind you of what happened the last time you tried to "borrow" my Potions essay?" I can't help but smile (slightly evilly) at that particular memory (Blaise had to wear a hat for weeks, it was glorious).

"Be that as it may," Blaise responds, scowling, "it doesn't change the fact that Potters little outburst spread around the school like Fiendfyre."

I wince at his mention of Fiendfyre (I will never be able to unsee Crabbe's untimely death, or forget Goyle's subsequent descent into madness at losing his best friend, his brother-in-arms). Having realized his blunder, Blaise pales and hangs his head in a silent apology.

None of us feel like continuing our usual banter (the memories, the guilt, the pain…it's too much; funny that it took death and destruction to finally unite the three of us in true friendship).

As we enter the Great Hall, I throw a quick look at the Gryffindor table (I might be looking out for a messy head of black hair). I see Longbottom trying (and failing spectacularly) to fend off Brown and Patil, Granger and Weasley fighting (is that their own particular brand of foreplay? Ugh, now I need to obliviate myself), Girl-Weasley talking to Thomas (judging from the smiles on their faces they might be the next Gryffindor power-couple), and, oh, there you are, Potter, sitting next to Finnigan, at the end of the table.

Satisfied (and no, it's not because your seat is facing the Slytherin table, making it possible for a certain someone to indulge in their Saviour-staring), I take a seat at the end of our own table, Pansy seating herself right across and Blaise taking the seat right next to hers (he has appointed himself her own personal protector this year, the school has not forgotten her little outburst on the eve of the Battle of Hogwarts).

Once I've filled my plate with a generous helping of mashed potatoes and an exquisite cut of beef sirloin, I let my eyes wander while I eat. Seeing you though makes me frown. After seven years of fighting evil and finally winning, you just look defeated. Not all the time, you mostly maintain the image of the strong war hero successfully, but then again, most people see what they want to see (and don't I know it). You merely show glimpses of weakness, caught only by those who observe you closely (and just what does that say about me?). Your shoulders slump and the expression on your face reveals a kind of exhaustion that doesn't stem from a lack of sleep. It's not hard to understand why: Harry Potter must be strong, for the Wizarding World relies on him to lead us to a brighter future. But how does the boy that was forced to grow up way too fast, who has seen way too much, heal from the horrors of war while under the pressure and expectations of everyone around him?

I saw Ginevra try (and fail) to help you, and I see Granger and Weasley growing increasingly protective of you. Yet, they have each other (as they make disgustingly clear at pretty much every meal in the Great Hall, thank Merlin she insists on behaving properly during classes). Who do you have? Who do you share your burdens with? Who is there for you when you get lost in the bloodcurdling screams of death, the smells of burning flesh or the anguish drowning your heart in darkness? (Oh sometimes I wish it could be me, but my demons would rip you apart, I have no power over them. At times, the hope of leaving behind the mess I created, to, yes, run far away from my problems, is all that keeps me going. Once a coward, always a coward.)

In a way, you are just as alone as me I suppose. Surrounded by friends who mean well, but can't possibly understand.

Taking a sip of pumpkin juice, I shut my eyes and force myself to clear my mind of the increasingly morbid thoughts that plague it.

"I'm off to the library to get a head start on this essay. I will see you two in the dorms later," I inform Pansy and Blaise. "Don't get into trouble."

They both nod while rolling their eyes, but we all know that as of late trouble has a way of finding us wherever we go.

Grabbing my bag, I stand up and make my way towards the door, carefully watching out for anyone that might want to follow me in search of payback or any other such nonsense. Placated, I look at you one more time and promptly stop walking.

A couple of first-year students, easily identified as Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws by their colourful shawls, is standing around you, accosting you into posing with them in front of that horrible Muggle contraption that used to hang around Creevey's neck.

My amusement at seeing you in that particular predicament takes a quick turn into anger, as I see equal parts of annoyance and dismay shine through the smiling façade you put up for them. It is clear to see that the whole situation is uncomfortable for you. But do you say no? Do you turn them away with a firm hand? No. You just let them do what they want (since when are you such a pushover? It's frankly maddening).

And before I can properly register the movement of my wand, I've already (non-verbally, because, yeah, I'm that good) cast the first spell that came to my mind. The single jet of water manages to hit its target perfectly: a couple of sparks erupt from the chimera (or was it camera… whatever, I don't care about Muggle stuff, their pictures don't even move) and your adoring fans let out a collective gasp at seeing their tool of torture drenched in water.

I make my escape as quickly as I can, destruction of property would not do my probation any good. But not quickly enough for Gryffindor's best ex-Seeker. As I let the door to the Great Hall fall shut behind me, I see your green eyes stare into mine for a fleeting second. (Crap.)

Accelerating my steps, I practically run to the library. But, alas, it's too late (why must you always be faster than me?).

"Malfoy," you grunt, wrapping a hand around my upper arm and thus preventing my escape into the relative safety of the library. "What is your bloody problem? I thought you were done terrorizing first-years?"

(Has anyone ever told you that despite the horribly self-righteous tone and intimidating stance you assume in full Saviour mode, that you look quite hot?)

"Manners, Potter," I respond, whirling around and dislodging your hold on me. "And I only did what you lacked the courage to do. Or did you gain a taste for fame at last? Do not tell me you were posing with those first-years willingly, my faith in the great but humble Harry Potter might just fade."

Turning red, in embarrassment or anger, or maybe both, you hiss, "Do not put words in my mouth Malfoy, what do you know about me?"

"I know that you absolutely hate the way everyone worships the ground you walk on. I know that you can't sit with your back to a door, not knowing who might come barging in. I know that you force yourself to smile and act as if everything was fine when all you want is to just have some peace and quiet in which to sort through your own thoughts, to work through your grief. I know you carry an enormous amount of misplaced guilt on your shoulders. I know that sometimes all you want to do is cry and scream at the world for being so incredibly cruel to take away the people you love over and over again. And most of all," I whisper, approaching you slowly while you stare at me in shock, "I know that while everyone around you is steadily moving on from the war, you just feel yourself sinking into despair a little bit more with each passing day."

And now we're standing toe to toe, you with your eyes wide open and frozen on the spot, and me gazing into your eyes while breathing heavily after my little monologue. The tension is palpable; something has to give. When I see colour fill your cheeks and your eyes narrow into a glare, I prepare myself for the worst and you don't disappoint me.

A shove and two drawn wands later, we're standing in a stalemate, both daring the other to be the first one to make a move.

" _Expelliar_ …"

 _"_ _Stupefy!"_

For the first time in our long and convoluted history, I am the one to cast faster. And just like that, I have Harry Potter's unconscious body lying at my feet. Could this day get any better?

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 **A/N:** Thank you so much for reading. This one was a little more introspective, and we get to know a bit more about the situation we find ourselves in. Next chapter should be up within this week. All mistakes are my own, if you see any, fell free to point them out! And please do leave me a review, they so make my day!


	3. A kidnapping

**A/N:** Finally, chapter 3 is up! My muses left me halfway though the process, so it took considerably longer than it should have. Thank you to everyone who reviewed so far, i really appreciate it! And to everyone who favorited this or put it on their story alert: thanks so much, i would love to hear from you as well!

 **Disclaimer:** Nope, Harry Potter is still not mine.

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 **Chapter 3: A kidnapping**

So, a knocked out Harry Potter is lying at my feet. And while there was a time when I would have rejoiced in such a scenario, right now the panic rising within my chest is threatening to freeze my usually rather eloquent thought process.

My first reaction is to just run away (shocker), but that would buy me only so much time. After all, the only Death Eater in Hogwarts would be the first person suspected of harming the Boy-who-lived-twice.

"By Merlin, what was I thinking?"

I could just hide your body, let you wake up somewhere inconspicuous…but you would still know. And if you mutter one word, I'm done for. It would be the perfect excuse for the Aurors to lock me up in Azkaban and throw away the key.

I could always obliviate you…but if anyone ever discovers that I tampered with your mind I would be Dementor-fodder.

Or, I could try to reason with you, after all, you did draw your wand as well...right, who am I kidding? If there's one thing Harry Potter isn't, it's reasonable (or patient for that matter). You've never been able to drop your habit of shooting first and talking later (I would know, seriously, who uses a spell they don't know anything about on a fellow student?).

But what option do I have left that's even remotely feasible? I'm running out of time too, dinner is going to be over soon, and the Ravenclaws (and Granger, which means Weasley as well) will be invading the library shortly.

It is probably best if I talk to you in a private environment though, just in case it escalates to an argument I do not wish to have witnessed by anyone. Thank Salazar us 8-year students were provided with our own personal chambers.

Trying to ignore the fact that I'm now basically kidnapping you, I pick up your wand and put it my right pocket. After disillusioning you, I proceed to levitate your body while I slowly make my way back to my room (you weigh next to nothing, have you been eating enough?). There are a few close calls, but we make it to the portrait guarding the Slytherin common room undetected.

"Redemption."

The password selection for our portrait has been delivering quite a few poorly hidden messages to us Slytherins this year. (Nice effort, McGonagall, but it will take more than words to put us back on the "right track".)

Once I cautiously levitate you into the common room, I carefully hide my wand within the folds of my robes, while still channelling the levitation spell. It is at this point that the Slytherins' silent agreement to ignore me at all times comes in handy: barely anyone lounging in the common room bothers to acknowledge my presence, not one of them greets me (and no, it doesn't hurt me at all, they are all beneath me…damn them). I cross the room with my head held high, adopting the persona of Slytherin's Ice Prince, for I will not let their judgement bring me down (my dignity, or at least what's left of it, is one of the last things I'll give up on).

Against all of my expectations, I successfully make it to my private chambers without being caught (and no, my knees are not shaking, it's merely a cramp). Carefully, I lower you onto my bed and take off the disillusionment charm. Taking a deep breath to try and calm myself, I allow myself a moment to just look at you. Were it not for the slight frown between your eyebrows, you'd look almost peaceful, as if you were just sleeping on the green sheets of my bed (and by Salazar, I have dreamt of having you in this exact position for too long). Yet I also see the blemishes on your skin. The bags under your eyes, the paleness of your face, the chapped skin of your lips, the skin stretched taught over your cheekbones: all signs of the struggle you've been going though this year. It makes something in my chest hurt, and I can't avoid the clenching of my teeth. But enough stalling, I am a coward, but even I know that the longer you are missing, the higher the chance somebody will start getting suspicious.

And now for the moment of truth: waking up the sleeping dragon. If you were a damsel, this could be fun, but this is you: there will be no kisses, instead, a whole lot of fire. I make sure I still have your wand tucked away safely and just in case, I take a step back from my bed. It would not do to avoid being hexed only for you to punch me in the face instead.

" _Rennervate_ ".

The effect is instantaneous. With a gasp, you immediately sit up and take in your surroundings, your right hand desperately grasping for your wand, only to come up empty. Once you spot me, your whole body freezes and your expression goes from anxious and confused to angry and calculating.

"Potter, looking for this?" I ask, showing him his wand.

"Malfoy. My wand, give it back."

"Oh Potter. Manners maketh man, and I did not hear a "please" anywhere in that sentence," I drawl in as condescending a voice as I can muster. "Being raised by Muggles does not excuse you from proper conduct."

"Fine, let me rephrase that for you: give me back my wand, _now_!"

"It seems living in a cupboard didn't just stunt your physical growth. If you keep behaving like a child, I shall treat you as such. Starting with…"

With every word spoken, I can see you losing just a little bit more of the already tenuous control you have on your temper (I just can't help myself, just imagining what you could do to me if you only thought about me they way I secretly think about you…). And I see the moment you snap, so when you lunge at me, I simply sidestep you and level my wand at your chest, stopping you from proceeding.

"Tssk, must you be such a brute? Does the concept of a verbal dispute personally offend you? _Sit down_ , Potter."

Growling, but glancing warily at my wand, you sit back down on my bed. I can practically feel the waves of tension radiating from your body, your every muscle poised to pounce the moment you see a chance to escape.

"Relax," I snap, rolling my eyes. "I will not be harming you, oh mighty Saviour. I'm not giving them any more excuses to vilify the Malfoy name. If I were to touch a single hair on your body, my life would be forfeited. "

"If you really believed that, you wouldn't have knocked me out in the first place."

"I was defending myself," I hiss back. "You were the one that came to me in order to start a fight!"

"What? You attacked those students first! All I did was confront you about it," you snarl indignantly. "Why would I want to waste my time fighting you?"

"First off, I never attacked any students. I simply saved a fellow classmate from being harassed by insolent children. And secondly, don't pretend you were merely defending them, you drew your wand because you were _scared_ , Potter."

"Shut up!" you yell (and I suspect if you had your wand, I'd be getting hexed within an inch of my life at this very moment). "I have never been afraid of you Malfoy, and I sure as hell don't plan to start now. I've faced far worse than you, what makes you think you could ever make me fear you?"

I narrow my eyes at you and take a step closer, hoping nobody heard you yell since I forgot to put up a silencing charm in my haste to talk to you. I don't dare to put one up now, I don't trust you not to use the moment I'd need to cast the spell to try to overpower me (damn your quick reflexes).

"Oh I don't doubt your lack of fear in the face of a lowly Slytherin. What I think is that you were scared to find out that the person you hate most in this school is the one that understands you the best. I think that everything I said about you is true, and you've been denying that to yourself just as much as you've been trying to hide it from your friends."

By now you're seething with anger (and by Merlin, the sight of you is driving me mad), your hands are curled into fists and I'm quite sure your fingernails are leaving bloody dents in your palms. It's almost enough to make me back off, but even us Slytherins have our moments of bravery (or stupidity, let's see how this ends first).

"I hope you are not planning on a career as a mind-healer, because you could not be further from the truth," you lie through your teeth. "Just tell me what you want from me and let's get this over with."

I see I'm not getting anywhere with you, you'd rather bite off your nose to spite your face than admit the truth (bloody Gryffindor). Fine, time to take a risk then (ugh, I should ask the Sorting Hat to just resort me already if I continue like this).

"I don't want anything from you, Potter."

That being said, I lower my wand and shock you further by taking yours out of my pocket and holding it out for you to take back. Slowly, probably expecting me to change my mind or trick you in some way, you reach out for your wand. For a moment, as your hand finally wraps around it, you stop moving and just look at me, still suspicious, but also curious. And that's all I needed. Your legendary curiosity won't let you drop this. I have your attention now, for better or worse (the urge to smirk and laugh with glee is almost insurmountable, but I fear that'd rather ruin this lovely moment we're having).

Eventually, I let go of your wand, leaving it back in your possession, and take a step back. You just stay seated on my bed, your outstretched hand hovering in the same position I left it in, not moving an inch, following my every move with your eyes. It seems I've left you speechless.

For a moment, we just keep staring at each other as I wait for you to make your exit. But you don't move, and the silence filling the room is starting to feel oppressing.

"While I don't mind you spending the night with me," I quip, unable to keep my facial muscles from forming the famous Malfoy smirk, "I don't think the school's rumour mill could handle that. Think of the children!"

And just like that, a miracle happens: a smile! I, Draco Malfoy, dastardly Death Eater and pureblood devil, made you, Harry Potter, Boy-who-lived-twice and all-around saint, smile. You try to cover it quickly, ducking your head so your disgustingly cute hair can cover your expression. But I've already seen it, and oh crap, I'm smiling too now.

You lift your head, your eyes wide open and your face holding an expression I haven't seen before.

"You're weird, Malfoy," you state in a soft voice, the likes of which you've never used when talking to me before.

"I have my moments," I respond, shrugging my shoulders.

Your face adopts a more serious expression, signalling you've just made a decision (it's ridiculously easy to read you, sometimes).

"You are not my friend Malfoy, and I don't trust you, but you were wrong when you said that I hate you. As long as you stop with the destruction of foreign property, fancy calling a truce?"

"I thought you'd never ask," I respond (who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?), slightly bewildered. "But I stand by what I explained to you before, I was only saving you from further torment at the hands of those little brats."

Snorting, you finally stand up and transfer your wand into your left hand. Hesitantly, you hold out your right hand in order for me to shake it in acknowledgment of our newly formed truce, and I firmly grasp it in mine (stubbornly ignoring the chill it sends down my spine).

And then it happens. As soon as I see _that_ glint in your eyes, I know you're up to something. But before I have the chance to do anything about it, you lean in and I just freeze on the spot. Disbelieving what my senses are telling me is happening, I feel your lips brush my cheek and hear you whisper:

"Well then, thank you, Draco."

And as soon as it's done, you turn around and saunter (are you swinging your hips?!) out of my room, leaving me stammering in your wake:

"W-what the fuck just happened?"

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 **A/N:** Soooo, what do you think? I'm thinking of writing maybe 1 or 2 more chapters, though i've learned that my stories often have a mind of their own. Btw, i do take requests, so if you have any suggestions as to what you'd like to see me writing next, let me know! And please, pretty please with a bow on top, review!


	4. Of plotting and sneaking around

**A/N** : Finally, I finished the next chapter! I'm so sorry it's taken so long, life was being a bitch, and my muses decided to take a little vacation. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed my story so far, and to all of you who've favorited this or added it to your alerts: I'd love to hear your opinions as well! And now, on with the story!

 **Disclaimer** : Nope, Harry Potter still belongs to J.K. Rowling.

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 **Chapter 4: Of plotting, sneaking around and guilty Gryffindors**

In which universe is it fair, or plausible for that matter, that someone like Harry bloody Potter can turn the tables on a Malfoy, on _me_? Oh, I will not stand for this: you shall live to regret this day! A Slytherin does not let himself be outplayed by a Gryffindor without exacting horrible, humiliating, epic revenge. (And maybe I've got a shit-eating grin on my face, and maybe my heart is beating a million miles an hour, but the alternative to epic revenge would be epic swooning, and Malfoys do not _swoon_.)

Also, bloody hell, you silly little knucklehead, you just walked out into the Slytherin common room. After my carefully crafted plan and the perfect execution thereof, you're ruining it all!

Not wasting another second, I run towards my door and throw it open, hopefully in time to prevent you from providing the Slytherin rumour mill with fuel for months. But as I look out into the common room, I don't see you anywhere. Neither are there any slack-jawed housemates, shell-shocked from seeing Boy Wonder walk out of the Death Eater's chambers. However, I do see the portrait opening and closing without anyone walking through it…

Of course: the Invisibility Cloak. And where exactly were you stashing that? Bloody deathly hallows with their bloody sneaky powerful magical abilities, I can't believe McGonagall is letting you keep it, that's blatant favouritism! I'm so going to tell my father…Oops. Still, being Harry Potter shouldn't mean you get special treatment. (No, the irony is not lost on me, yes, I know technically it was nepotism for me, and no, I don't care, my witticisms are superb, thank you very much.)

Closing the door again, I walk back to my bed and flop down on it, finally able to relax after the mess that was this evening (and maybe I lie down on the exact same spot you where resting on, maybe I can still feel your residual body heat and smell the distinctive scent of treacle tart and wand polisher and something uniquely you… but that's neither here nor there).

In any case, I guess it is time to do what a Slytherin and a Malfoy does best: plot revenge. It shall be epic and, sadly, since I must take painstaking care that it may not be traced back to me, subtle. You need to be able to know that it was I, or what would the point of it be? But everyone else? At best, they shouldn't even be made aware of it. At worst, they should believe it happened due to either you being clumsy or your friends playing a harmless prank on you.

Well, that leaves the more crude options out of the question. So, nothing that could permanently hurt you: scratch maiming, scarring, and pushing you off the Astronomy tower off that list. No psychological damage (not like you don't have enough of that already): so no conjuring up a spectre of Voldemort or sneaking a couple of Dementors into the school. And no humiliating grand schemes designed to embarrass you in front of the whole school: so no spelling your clothes invisible during breakfast in the Great Hall tomorrow morning (maybe I'll just keep that in the back of my mind as an emergency back-up plan).

Ugh, what else is there? Harmless pranks have never been my forte… Maybe I should take some clues from the way your friends have pulled pranks on you over the years. Ok, so, think like a freckled, red-haired, lanky Gryffindor… Hmm, I guess tomorrow will be the day I first set foot in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' new shop in Hogsmeade.

* * *

It's a good thing that I spent most of last year hiding from He-who-must-not-be-named, crazy aunt Bella and pretty much every mental Death Eater at the mansion: I've become a master at hide and seek, a very convenient commodity since Draco Malfoy idly meandering through Hogsmeade would probably not be looked at favourably by the locals. To think that there was a time when shopkeepers would attend to my needs with nervous glee, trying to impress me with the quality of their ware while monumentally overpricing it in order to help themselves to whatever scrap of the Malfoy fortune they could get their grabby fingers on.

I probably should be thanking McGonagall for even being allowed to come to Hogsmeade on weekends like every other 8th year student. Her belief in treating all students equally in order to promote inter-house unity extends even to us detested "war criminals", and while that works in my favour, I cannot quite decide whether to find that incredibly naïve or surprisingly generous.

Still, I have to be very careful to disguise my presence here as well as I can, it would not do to incite these peasants into chasing me out of their village in righteous fury with the proverbial torches and pitchforks. My clothes look plain enough, a simple black coat and black leather boots of the lowest quality in my possession and a grey cashmere scarf with a matching hat (I couldn't resist some luxuries, I honestly tried, but common cotton chafes). Furthermore, the several appearance-altering glamours I cast on myself should be enough to prevent anybody from recognizing me (shorter forehead, higher cheekbones, blue eyes, brown and shorter hair), but just in case I need to stay away from people who might notice the shimmer of magic over my features. It would be rather inconvenient to happen upon a nosy Nellie (yes it's a Muggle expression, get over it) determined to find out who is hiding behind the mask of magic.

Approaching WWW's, I make sure not to look in any way suspicious. Which means no rearranging my hat to cover my face or pulling up my scarf to cover my chin, the trick in hiding in plain sight is to act as if you are supposed to be there: calm and slightly bored. Since this is one of the weekends where none but the 8th year students are allowed to visit the village, there aren't many customers in the shop. No Slytherins are around, but that's not surprising, with me going undercover and Pansy and Blaise deciding against leaving the relative security of the castle, that's all three of us 8th year snakes accounted for.

I see two Ravenclaw girls debating over the properties of several brightly coloured love potions, a group of Hufflepuffs admiring the Spell Checking and Self-Writing Quills, and, how did I ever think I'd be lucky enough to evade you lot, the Golden Trio talking with George (or is it Fred? I can never remember) Weasley.

Avoiding you for now, I walk down the nearest empty aisle to start examining the merchandise. Hmm, while the fireworks would be quite lovely to behold, they would also attract too much unwanted attention, I don't need the professors looking into this. Maybe a Nose Biting Teacup? Minimal damage but a nice reward: I've seen students walking around with red noses for days after being bitten by those silly little toys. They do lack a personal touch though. I guess I could modify the cup to display the Slytherin house colours, maybe even the crest, but there's no way you would touch that, let alone drink anything out of it.

The Self-propelling Custard Pies would be nice if they were treacle tarts instead…or if they looked like ones…hmm, yes, I think I've got it. This may take some creative spellwork, but it will definitely be worth the hassle. Now all I need to do is buy this and get back to the castle without being recognized.

As I walk towards the checkout, I see you, Granger and Weasley walking towards me, presumably to exit the store after concluding your conversation with the surviving Weasley twin. Turning slightly in order to let you and your sidekicks pass, I chance a look at your face. You seem to be lost in your thoughts, barely acknowledging your friends' bantering ("Ron, you better not be planning on using those things to skip class! These are our NEWT's!" "Come on Hermione, after last year, don't we deserve a break? And it's only just November! We still have more than half a year left until the exams!").

Except for half a smile from a lecturing Granger and a distracted nod from Weasley, none of you pay me any further attention. I patiently wait until you exit the store before walking up to the cash register, noticing that I'm the only customer left in the shop.

"Well hello dear customer! What's it gonna be for you today? Puking Pastilles for the mortal enemy? Nosebleed Nougats to skip that one annoying class? A love potion for the girlfriend, or possibly the boyfriend? We've got everything your prankster heart desires!"

"Thank you," I drawl, lifting an eyebrow to demonstrate my opinion of this rather exuberant sales pitch. "But I've already made my choice."

"Very well, one Pie for you," George Weasley says jovially, ringing it up. "That will be 17 sickles and 14 knuts."

Once I hand him the coins, I take a moment to look at his features more closely. The Weasley children have always been thin, but this one seems to be putting a real effort into looking like a freckled beanstalk. I can see the familiar sheen of a glamour spell: if I were to guess, it is currently concealing heavy bags under tired eyes and gaunt, sunken cheeks. I also notice the pictures of the late Weasley twin on the counter, and how the one still counting the coins keeps sneaking glances at them. And to my surprise, I can feel a familiar anger surging within me. While it's not quite as strong as it tends to be around you, it's most definitely there. I know what grief looks like, and this isn't it, or at least not only. The look in his eyes is the one I see every day in the mirror, the one that won't leave you either: guilt. And before I can stop myself, it just slips out:

"Don't you Gryffindors ever get tired of blaming yourselves for everything that goes wrong in the world? Is it some type of contest between you people? To see which one can carry the world on their shoulders for the longest time?"

"What are you talking about? Did you eat one too many Sugar Hexes? They can have some unpredictable effects…"

"Do not insult me, I'm not under the influence of any type of candy, spell or potion. Do you or do you not feel guilty for the death of your brother?" I demand to know (I've already dug my grave here, I might as well lie in it.)

And there it is, the ridiculous Weasley temper, one of the reasons that insulting members of that family has always been a favourite pastime of mine: anger makes his face break out in horrible red blotches, his freckles are practically glowing and I swear I can see his red hair bristling in fury.

"Do not ever talk to me about my brother again, brat. What would you know about him or me, about what we went through during the war? I bet your family hid like all the other wizards and witches too afraid to stand up for themselves and what they believe in, too afraid to actually fight for their homes and lives. And now you're here telling me to what? Move on already? Just be happy I'm alive? Let bygones be bygones? Forget that if I'd been just a little bit faster, a little bit more alert, I could have saved him? Ignore the fact that he should be standing here right next to me, trading jokes and chasing insolent, spineless little rats like you out of our shop?"

Snorting, I decide to resort to more drastic measure to get my point across (bloody thick-headed Gryffindor) and remove the appearance-altering spells I put on myself:

" _Finite Incantatem_. No, my family fought for what they believed in and I fought so we could stay alive, no matter what I had to do to ensure our survival. They took the lives of people that didn't deserve to die, and I hurt people I had no business hurting. And I will have to live with that; _I_ will carry that guilt with me until the day I die. But you, _you_ fought for your family and your friends, and you did so _honourably_ ," I spit out, almost vibrating in anger myself. "You may choose to grief in whatever way you deem appropriate: starve yourself or hey, how about some cutting? But if you feel guilty about your brother's death, you're just as much of an idiot as I always thought you were. He _chose_ to fight and he _chose_ to risk his life to save others. You feeling guilty about it, thinking you should have saved him, blaming yourself for not getting to him in time or whatever goes on in that ginger head of yours, it just dishonours the choices he made in his life."

"Get out, Malfoy, get out _now_ , before I hex your big mouth shut, permanently."

Taking in his shaken appearance, the way his skin has gone from an angry red to a deathly white, I decide to cut my losses and make my way back to Hogwarts, hoping this encounter won't mean I'll be accosted by an angry Weasel in the near future.

As it's getting dark, I just cover my face and my hair as best as I can: reapplying the glamour spells would take too long and would look highly suspicious to boot. Luckily, nobody takes notice of me; the cold is hurrying everyone's steps back to their homes or the nearest pub. Alas, neither the Hog's Head nor the Three Broomsticks are places where I'd be welcomed in. My trip back to the castle and down into the dungeons is fairly uneventful, something I would have liked to be able to categorize this whole trip as. Still, I have what I set out for, and tomorrow, Potter, you're going _down_.

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 **A/N** : So that got more depressing than i expected it to. I promise the next chapter will be more light-hearted, and will definitely feature some interaction between our favourite two boys. It should be up fairly soon, it's already in the works. Like always, thank you so much for reading and please review, I'd love to know how I'm doing!


	5. Pulling Pigtails

**A/N:** Oh my god, it's been forever since i updated. Work and Uni and just life in general has been rather hectic lately. Here's a longer chapter this time, to make up for the lack of updates, for a bit at least. Enjoy!

 **Disclaimer** : Don't own Harry Potter, never will, stop making me say it.

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Chapter 5: Pulling Pigtails

So my ingenious plan to prank you by transfigurating a Self-Propelling Pie into a Self-Propelling treacle tart is officially failing. While it looks just as delicious and mouth-watering as the ones baked by the Hogwarts house-elves, it is missing one quite important detail: the smell. Try as I might, I can't seem to figure out how give these damn things the right scent. It was hard enough to transform the pies into treacle tarts without destroying the intricate spellwork designed to propel it into an unsuspecting victim's face, but giving up on revenge is not in a Malfoy's nature. So, if I can't put the tart in the spellwork, I'll just have to put the spellwork in the tart: I'm going to bake a treacle tart and then charm it myself. (I'm excellent at recreating charms, just ask dear ole' Voldy.)

Well then, off to the kitchens I must go. It's already quite late, so there shouldn't be many students wandering the halls. On a Saturday night, most of Hogwarts' populace stays in their common rooms to avail themselves of their free time in whichever manner they deem best. Mostly they get drunk out of their minds. Some lucky ones get to slobber all over their significant others while making everyone in their vicinity horribly uncomfortable, and the very fortunate among us take advantage of the empty dorm rooms to, well, 'explore the Chamber of Secrets' or 'ride the broomstick' (damn lucky bastards).

Truly, the passageway into the kitchens must be Hogwarts' worst kept secret. Everyone knows where the portrait is, everyone knows exactly where to tickle the pear, and yet none of the professors has ever said anything about it. If I were to make an educated guess about the nature of this mystery, I'd argue that it's the kitchens workers, the house-elves, who permit, maybe even encourage, the clandestine visits to their realm. House-elves tend to attach themselves to families, not places, and it's quite plausible that they regard the professors and students as their family and therefore their masters. And there is no house-elf in the wizarding world that would refuse sustenance to his or her master, school rules be damned.

After tickling the pear in order to reveal the doorknob, I step into the kitchens. Dinner has been over for quite some time now, there isn't a dirty dish in sight. A dozen house-elves are sweeping the floors and scrubbing anything that isn't already spotlessly clean. Upon my entrance, they all look up, and for a second, I doubt the wisdom in me, a Malfoy, seeking their help. They try to hide their expressions valiantly, but I can see the distrust in their eyes, the way they shift their gazes in order to avoid mine and how the tension in the room increases just so.

The tale of Dobby is known to every house-elf in England, not to mention the horror stories told of the fates that befell the house elves working at Malfoy Manor during the stay of the Dark Lord (and how I wish they were nothing but stories). It was then, in their lowest hour, _my_ lowest hour that I finally acknowledged them as more than just servants to do my bidding: it was a bond forged out of pain and terror, the realization that for all our powers and fancy trinkets, we were all under the same yoke. When Voldemort came to the Manor, we counted six house elves among our domestic staff. After he left, we found that only one of them had survived the Dark Lord's 'games'. He might be better off dead.

Trying to avoid dwelling on these thoughts, I wait patiently while they have a hushed conversation amongst themselves, after which one of the stockier house-elves approaches me, though quite warily.

"What can Topsy do for master? Is master wanting a midnight snack? A glass of milk to help master sleep, yes?"

"That won't be necessary Topsy, all I need tonight are the ingredients needed to make a treacle tart, if you please."

I'm not sure if it's the bizarre request, or the fact that a Pureblood, a Malfoy no less, actually deigned to use the word "please" when talking to a house-elf, but Topsy's big murky green eyes seem to want to try and make a bold bid for freedom from their sockets. I'm actually starting to get concerned for the poor confused house-elf. He seems to have gone into a state of shock.

"Topsy? Hello?" Sighing at his lack of response, I turn towards the other house-elves. "My apologies, I did not mean to upset your colleague. Would one of you be as kind as to bring me the ingredients for a treacle tart? And maybe one of you could help Topsy here?"

I shouldn't have bothered, all the rest of them are just standing there, frozen in the middle of their work as if I'd hit them with a _Petrificus Totalus_. Sighing, I turn around and start making my way back out of the kitchens. There's no need for me to terrorize the house-elves with my continued presence; there's no way they will be able to help me like this. (Ugh, if it were you, Potter, they'd probably just throw themselves at your feet and bring you whatever you wanted in record speed.)

As I reach the portrait, though, I hear the squeaking sound of what is clearly supposed to be the garbled speech of a house-elf. Turning around, I see that one of the eleven previously frozen house-elves has walked up to stand beside Topsy and is wringing his (her?) hands nervously while working up the courage to talk to me. After a couple of deep breaths, the little house-elf finally manages to mumble:

"Master, please wait! We house-elves are not wanting to deny Master! B-but, Master should not insult us so!"

After her (the squeaking is _incredibly_ high, no doubt a female house-elf) little outburst, she immediately slaps a hand over her mouth and looks at me in horror. I've known and been the source of that look for my whole life though, so before she can start with the self-flagellation, I quickly respond:

"Stop, elf. It's not a crime to want to explain your behaviour to me. I would very much like to know in which manner I have insulted you. I merely asked Topsy, quite politely at that, to bring me the ingredients to a dish I wish to make myself, I don't th…"

It's like my words are an invisible slap to the face for the house-elves. It serves both to wake them up from their stupor and to make them gasp in outrage.

"Master! We house-elves of Hogwarts be working here for years! We are loyal to all the castle's residents and we are bound by oath to Headmistress McGonagall to look out for all the students. Master can trust us… even, e-even if we can't trust Master!"

"What? Elf, I've been nothing but respectful towards Topsy and you, uh…"

"Turvy, Master."

"Right, to my best knowledge, I have neither insulted Topsy nor you, Turvy (for Salazar's sake, who names these house-elves?!), so would you please just bring me the ingredients I asked for so we can be done with this inane conversation already?"

The wails the house-elves release are enough to make me wince and fear for the state of my eardrums. I must admit I have no idea what is going wrong here. I'm rather sure I followed the instructions on how to interact with house-elves to the letter (and don't let Blaise or Pansy tell you I read Granger's ridiculous S.P.E.W. pamphlets, I'm obviously just following the Ministry's new policy on Wizard-House-Elf interactions, _obviously_ , dammit.)

Amidst the racket the house-elves are making, I also hear an exasperated chuckle from behind me. Whirling around, I immediately slip a hand into my robes to grab my wand, just in case I need to obliviate whoever just witnessed me making a fool out of myself.

And of course, who else would it be but you, bane of my existence and haunter of my dreams, standing right there next to the kitchens' entrance, smirking like the infuriating little brat that you are.

"Fancy meeting you here, Potter. Shouldn't good little Gryffindors be in bed at this hour?"

"Why, hello there, Malfoy. I'd dare you to stay in the Gryffindor dorms while Hermione and Ron are enjoying their study-free time, if you catch my drift, but that would be cruel and unusual punishment, even for you."

"For Merlin's sake," I retort, grimacing while trying not to let my imagination run wild, "why would you even mention that? Is it not enough that I have to see them slobber all over each other at breakfast, lunch and dinner, must I now live with the images of their more _vigorous_ extracurricular activities as well?"

And you, bloody _gorgeous_ you, you just throw your head back and laugh. (And the way you bare your throat, the way it makes the muscles and tendons in your neck stand out, the way it seems to lift the burden off your shoulders: it does _not_ make my heart flutter, nu-uh. Crap.)

It's at this point, that the house-elves realize exactly who entered the kitchens, and they all rush past me to flock around you. Rolling my eyes, I watch as they all shower you with attention, offering anything you might want, from a pint of Butterbeer to an eight-course meal. And while it's quite adorable to watch you blush in embarrassment and try to convince them that all you want is a cup of tea and maybe some cookies, that still doesn't help me with my problem.

"Say, Potter, once your little fan-club is done drooling all over you, would you mind asking them to maybe help me for a change? I'm not asking for much, just for the ingredients to make a treacle tart."

"Oh, I heard what happened," you say, and you even have the decency to blush as you admit to eavesdropping on me. "I think what you fail to understand, Malfoy, and please correct me if I'm wrong Turvy, that while your manners were impeccable, asking a house-elf for the ingredients for a meal instead of for the meal itself is a grave insult to professional pride."

"Master Potter is being right, sir," Turvy chimes in timidly. "We house-elves have our pride too, Master Malfoy, and we can cook Master whatever he desires. Even though we have heard horrible, horrible things about the house-elves in Master's service, Master can trust that we never be harming a student of Hogwarts with our food, it would bring dishonour to us all!"

"I see." I respond, finally understanding the problem. And as I mull over Turvy's words, I can't help but release a sigh in both annoyance and regret. I close my eyes and steel myself for my next words:

"I can't deny what happened to the Malfoy house-elves, Turvy. The Dark Lord tortured all but one of them until their bodies just couldn't handle the pain anymore. And Pinky, the one survivor, will probably never be the same," I whisper, avoiding Potter's eyes and focusing on the dozen solemn house-elves instead. "I don't know how close you were to them, but I offer my apologies to you for not being able to do my duty as their Master, for having failed to protect them when they needed me. For what it's worth, my mother has taken Pinky with her to France, not as a servant, but as a fellow victim to the insanity that befell us all, one way or another."

For a while, no one says anything. The house-elves just stare at me in silence, their faces an unreadable mask. I throw a quick glance at you, and see you standing there with a sad smile and a faraway look, probably remembering the renegade seventh Malfoy house-elf.

All of a sudden it's just too much. I can't keep looking them in the eyes and I can't stand this heavy silence any longer: I need to leave, right now. But just as I drop my gaze to my feet and start to move towards the portrait, I feel small hands grasping my own. Looking up, I see Turvy holding on to me, with a kind expression on her little face.

"When Dobby was working with us, he told us stories of Malfoy Manor. He said as a little boy, Master was always playing with him, calling Dobby his friend. But then Master's father said not to, and Master obeyed. We house-elves be seeing that many times. Young masters being told by old masters to do wrong things, mean things. Will you still listen to old Master now?"

"No, Turvy," I manage to choke out, "I know better now. I want to be a good Master now."

Turvy beams, and throws her arms around me, or well, my legs, with a high-pitched squeal of joy. It seems to be a kind of signal to the other house-elves, who all relax their postures and gather around me. Topsy, bless him, disentangles Turvy from me, and asks, smiling:

"Can Topsy bake Master Malfoy a treacle tart now?"

"Uhm, while I'd very much appreciate that, I do really need to get just the ingredients, and maybe a recipe. I need them for a spell I'm working on to uh, enhance flavours, Topsy, and I can't just cast it on the finished tart."

"Oh! Turvy is the best baker in Hogwarts, Master, can Turvy help you, please?" Turvy cries out enthusiastically.

"Turvy is the best baker, but the messiest too. Topsy will help too, Master, so we don't have to be cleaning the kitchens all night!" Topsy grumbles, ignoring Turvy's dirty glance.

"Of course," I reply hurriedly, trying to keep the peace. "You can both help. I have actually never baked before, your assistance would be much appreciated."

"Can Harry help too? He's quite curious to see this spell of yours," you butt in, grinning, looking at me with so much warmth in your eyes it's almost overwhelming. "And since it's his favourite pastry, he's quite familiar with the recipe."

"Very funny, Potter," I answer, voice dripping with sarcasm (it's a Malfoy thing). "Fine, you can stay. Let's get this over with."

For the next hour, Topsy, Turvy, you and I bake, while the other house-elves go back to their regular duties. Or rather, you bake, Turvy makes a mess, Topsy cleans it up and I occasionally cast a non-verbal spell (it is supposed to be a surprise for you after all). All in all, it's one of the most bizarre yet at the same time funny moments of my life (there are warm and fuzzy feelings all around, Hufflepuff, here I come).

Once we're finally done, Topsy and Turvy bid us goodnight after making us promise to visit again soon. And now it's just the two of us, again.

"So, shall we try this magical treacle tart of yours, Malfoy?" You ask, already holding a fork in your hand.

And it's ridiculous how much I just want to let you take a bite, right now, what with your silly smile, the streak of flour in your hair and the little bit of batter on your left cheek making you look so, so… _yummy_. (My ancestors are rolling in their graves, I'm sure, and somewhere out there, Father probably just got the inexplicable urge to throw himself off a cliff.)

But that's not the plan, not yet, at least.

"My apologies, Potter, but I'm going to give this to someone very special. I'm afraid you're going to have to wait until tomorrow's dinner to indulge your sweet tooth."

"Oh," you say, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy crup (your bloody _hair_ looks sad, how is that even possible?). "Well, I hope this person likes it, you put a lot of work in it."

"I'm sure they'll love it. Thank you for your help, Potter, good night."

"You're welcome, Malfoy, good night."

And so I pick up the tart carefully and move to exit the kitchens, throwing a single glance behind me, to see you throw the fork back into its drawer dejectedly. I barely resist the urge to laugh out loud. This is going to be _fun_.

* * *

Time is a bitch. It's like it slowed down to the pace of a geriatric snail. The anticipation to see how my prank plays out at dinner is killing me! I was barely able to sleep last night, after the whole house-elf incident, and now the sun is refusing to set. Pansy and Blaise kept me company all morning, but after snapping at them one too many times, they decided they were better off studying in the library (on a Sunday!).

But now it's finally here: the time for my sweet, sweet revenge (literally). Thanks to my new friends down in the kitchens, the placement was no problem at all. Though I believe Topsy and Turvy think I'm courting you now. (I'm not, that way lies madness.)

So now I'm sitting at the Slytherin table, slowly going mad with excitement. I barely eat, since I'm too busy observing the Gryffindor table for the appearance of their desserts.

Finally, they pop up. Lying innocently in front of you is my lovely, enchanted, mouth-watering treacle tart (slightly modified so you won't immediately recognize it; Turvy helped). And like the predictable brat that you are, you immediately snatch it for yourself.

Smiling wistfully, you grab a fork, and dig in.

Even my imagination couldn't make the following events justice: the moment the fork enters the tart it propels itself off the plate and right onto your face with a satisfying splat. The Gryffindors laugh good-naturedly, Granger offers you a napkin while fighting not to burst into giggles and Weasley is practically rolling on the floor laughing. The younger students get over their initial indignation pretty quickly and soon join the rest of the table in their laughter.

Oh, and your reaction itself is just delicious. At first you just sit there, stunned and disbelieving. After a couple of seconds, you take off your glasses, using the offered napkin to clean them up. Once you put them back on, you immediately look over to the Slytherin table and narrow your eyes at me. And I just can't help myself: grinning, I innocently bat my eyelashes at you. (If I could get away with it, I'd blow you a kiss.)

Slowly, the corners of your lips start to twitch upwards, and soon you're grinning and laughing along with your friends. And then, well, then my plan crumbles in on itself. Because you, the usually oh so innocent Potter, start _licking_. You lick your lips in the most lewd fashion I've _ever_ seen, all the while looking me in the eyes with an unwavering stare.

I start to squirm on my chair.

Your grin widens, and, Salazar help me, you run your fingers through your face and start _sucking_. On your fingers. While staring at me.

I run out of the Great Hall.

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 **A/N:** Thank you soo much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, I had so much fun writing this part. Still no beta, so any and all mistakes are mine. Special thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far, your encouragement means the world to me! In that note: please do press the button below and leave me a review, even if it's just to kick my butt for taking forever with this story :P


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